


Lit Vacancies

by briggs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, IM KIDDING ITS BARELY EVEN ANGST, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:51:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5001898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briggs/pseuds/briggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles sharing a dorm room with Scott was, in theory, supposed to be a great idea. But Allison visiting overnight has become a bit of a problem for Stiles' sleep schedule, which is already screwed to all hell. So Stiles resorts, one night, to finding somewhere else to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Handy Dandy

Alright, maybe Stiles isn’t the luckiest person in the world. He has literally his entire life as proof of that fact. However, one would think he would be lucky enough to have one night -- _one_ _night_ \-- where something doesn’t go entirely wrong. One night, universe. That’s all he’s asking for.  
  
But, of course, the world is perpetually conspiring against him. Stiles would be absolutely flabbergasted if he found out there was a Higher Being who _didn’t_ wake up in the morning and brainstorm ways to thwart Stiles in his endeavours that day. That would be a miracle. But miracles happen to usually be the doing of Higher Beings, specifically aforementioned Higher Beings that plot against Stiles over their morning Omnipotence Latte.   
  
And all of this is very evident because of one Allison Argent, who just walked into Stiles’ dorm room.   
  
Don’t get him wrong, okay, he loves Allison. Allison is a pleasant gift sent from the heavens above to make Scott conveniently both happy and very very lovesick. She’s nice, she’s funny, Stiles would genuinely probably hang out with her even if Scott wasn’t dating her. You know, she quotes Star Wars when you’re least expecting it and sometimes brings Stiles coffee even before he’s asked her to.  
  
That being said, Stiles has had a hectic week. Scott’s been his best friend for over eighty percent of his life, and sometimes Stiles craves a little alone time with him. That’s not so crazy, right? Especially when you spend your entire week pouring over textbooks and slaving over essays and attending lectures and dealing with projects wherein your group members care more about a new pair of cargo shorts than actually getting a decent mark in the class. Not to mention, he’s had an extra chaotic week because Lydia decided now was the perfect time for Stiles to acquire a completely brand new wardrobe. He’s more exhausted than he was that time he didn’t sleep for three days just to see if he could.  
  
All Stiles wants to do, honestly, is sit with Scott, maybe play some mindless shooting video games or talk about stuff that doesn’t matter. Maybe Stiles just wants to sleep for eighteen hours like a normal college student.  
  
The problem is, when Allison is here, Scott jumps to a different wavelength, into a hyperactive headspace. It’s like magic. When Allison and Scott are here, in Scott and Stiles’ room, they’re suddenly very obnoxious. Stiles loves them, but it’s also quite hard to sleep when he can hear gross kissing noises and sickening verbal taunts coming from three feet away.  
  
So, like any normal human would, Stiles books it. All aboard the Nope Train to Fuckthatsville, choo choo. He’d rather be anywhere else. Hell, he’ll sleep in the goddamn floor dining room if he has to. Hearing the soft stirring of _real_ mac and cheese is infinitely better than the similar sound of young love. Who made that comparison anyway? If there’s anything Stiles doesn’t want to think about when hearing people make out, it’s the fact that the sound is exactly the same as stirring mac and cheese. He shivers.  
  
  
Then again, he might be shivering because he’s standing in the hallway in his boxers and a loose tank, spinning in circles and looking for a room to stay in for the night. They keep the hallways surprisingly cool, actually, he might have goosebumps.  
  
At least Stiles had told Scott he had a place to sleep, so he knows the poor dude isn’t peeling himself off Allison to worry about Stiles’ well-being. “I have other friends, Scott,” Stiles had said. “Don’t worry, man. I’ll sleep fine. You and Allison have fun, okay? Actually, wait, don’t respond to that please, I don’t want to hear it. I’m leaving now, okay, bye.”  
  
And now, like the genius that he truly is and should get credit for, Stiles is stranded half-naked in a dorm hallway with nowhere to sleep. Because he doesn’t actually have other friends in his dorm who would be cool with him crashing on their floor at 11pm.  
  
On the plus side, he did just check the rooming map yesterday, and apparently Tim McGr-Asshole got kicked out of room 304. Good riddance, too. Even Scott was ready to deck the bastard after the fourth hour of continuous country was blasted down the hallways last week.  Whoever roomed with that dude must be the nicest, most patient person ever. Obviously, that’s where Stiles is going to go. Besides, it’s the only room on the floor that has an empty bed.  
  
Stiles won’t lie, he has to psych himself up a bit before knocking on the door. The person behind it might be asleep, and even the nicest, most patient person would be grumpy if they were woken up by some random half-naked kid banging on their door. Alas, he’s not going to just turn down the opportunity on the chance that the guy is sleeping, so he knocks away.  
  
The person who opens the door is very obviously _not_ the nicest, most patient person ever. Remember when Stiles said even that person would be a little grumpy? Yeah, well, this guy’s not grumpy. He’s downright furious.   
  
A weird, calm, sleepy sort of furious though. Come to think of it, the fury really only shows through his face, in the sighing and the pinching of the bridge of his nose and the rolling of his eyes. Not that the guy doesn’t have gorgeous eyes because -- you know, he totally does. It’s just that they’re pinning Stiles with the kind of death glare that is either going to make him piss or jizz himself.  
  
And that perfect moment is exactly when Stiles actually looks at the guy in front of him, who still has not said anything, and actually takes in how hot he is. Like, sure, maybe anyone would look hot after rolling out of bed in boxers and low lighting, but this guy -- he’s -- maybe Stiles should just start banging his head against the wall. Have they even spoken yet? How long has it been since Mr. Grumpy Gorgeous opened the door?  
  
“Uh, hey!” Stiles says, because it’s a weird silence they’re soaking in right now, and all emotions aside, Stiles did come here on a mission. “Sorry for waking you, I just--”  
  
The guy makes a gruff noise. There’s no way to explain it except for like, weird man-bear huffing? Anyway, the noise is loud and intrusive enough that Stiles has no choice but to cut off, clear his throat and start again.   
  
“I checked the rooming plan and it says you have a free bed?” Whether instinctively or as a conscious decision Stiles forgets making, he speeds up so Hotness can’t interrupt him again. “I can’t stay in my own dorm room tonight man, I can’t do it, I don’t have that kind of strength. My roommate’s girlfriend is over and I need somewhere to sleep, dude, please.”  
  
The man at the door just narrows his eyes. “Tell the front office she’s there,” he mumbles, already about to close the door and turn away.  
  
Stiles manages to catch the door first. The guy stares at his hand furiously until Stiles lets go. “Wait, why?”  
  
“She’s obviously not allowed to be there?”  
  
Stiles considers it for maybe two seconds. He’d probably never have to deal with the same thing again, but then Scott would be sad and Allison would be sad and if they ever found out it was Stiles who ratted them out, he’d lose his friends and-- “Nope, can’t do that. They’re good friends. Please, dude, do me this one solid.”  
  
The dude sighs and growls out, “This isn’t my problem, _dude_ ,” but he sounds almost like he’s about to break.  
  
“If nothing else, at least you can say you’ve made a new friend. I’ll do anything, man, seriously. Come on, help a bro out.”  
  
A full minute passes. The guy behind the door with Stiles’ comfort and safety in his hands for the night just stares, slowly narrowing his eyes. He definitely doesn’t shy away from eye contact with Stiles, staring unashamed into Stiles’ soul the whole time. Except for when Stiles catches the guy’s eyes scanning Stiles’ body, because apparently that’s happening? Stiles will freely admit he’s more than a little embarrassed that he’s just standing there at this stranger’s mercy in nothing but boxers and a tank, but he’s not going to let the asshole _know_ that. He does his absolute fucking best to keep his ears a normal shade of pink as the dude's eyes roam for the third time.  
  
After what must be years of silent and vaguely uncomfortable staring, the guy rolls his eyes and huffs out a very bitter, “Fine.” He walks away from the door but doesn’t close it, which is absolutely one hundred percent a free invitation for Stiles Stilinski.  
  
“Thanks, man! You’re the best.” Stiles slides in the door and closes it behind him, walking over to the bare-ass bed across from where the guy is sitting on his own mattress. It’s then that Stiles remembers he probably needs like, sheets and stuff. “Shit.”

  
The dude seems to read Stiles’ mind. “I’ll leave the door open,” Whats-His-Face mumbles, already lying back down on his sheets, which may or may not be black. Seriously, black sheets? Stiles squints and thinks they might be like, satin. Silk, maybe? Who knows. Rich pretentious stuff Stiles has probably never laid a finger on in his life.  
  
“Okay, yeah, thanks dude.”  
  
  
By the time he comes back with his comforter in hand, he’s made so much noise that Stubble Man is sitting upright in his bed, glaring once again at Stiles coming through the door. “Sorry,” is all Stiles can manage to say until he’s dropped the blanket on the empty bed. “I’m Stiles, by the way,” he says as he walks over to Stubble Man, holding out a hand. And sure, maybe now is not the best time to introduce himself, but it would also kind of be weird falling asleep in the same room as a guy you don’t know the name of.  
  
“Derek,” says the Marble Statue, but he doesn’t shake Stiles’ hand. “Can I sleep now?”  
  
Stiles can only shrug, pulling back his hand and disguising that particular brand of embarrassment. “I guess so. Why, do you have class tomorrow?”  
  
“No.” It seems like Derek’s going to leave it at that until he realizes Stiles isn’t walking away without a better answer. “Family shit recently, I’m tired.” he says again, as if that’s enough to satisfy Stiles’ rampant sense of curiosity.  
  
“Okay, fine, I won’t push,” Stiles says as he walks back to the bed on the other side. “But I’m here if you like, want to talk or be distracted or anything.”  
  
“Sleep is a pretty good distraction.” Derek says, obviously still grumpy.  
  
“I’m shutting up, dude, I promise.” And Stiles plans on it, seriously, he’s committed to letting the poor dude sleep. But then he crawls on the empty bed, and he wraps himself in the comforter he dragged here all the way from his room down the hall, and he remembers he doesn’t have a pillow. Sure, he could ball up the blanked and use that, but then he has no warmth. Maybe he could ball up some and use the rest?  
  
Stiles starts shifting around, trying to get his comforter -- which is actually quite thick, thank God, this room is freezing -- to act as both a pillow and a blanket at the same time. Every position he tries this in is incredibly uncomfortable and ends up either strangling him or making him vaguely claustrophobic. He can’t move, for god’s sake, and when he’s alone in a bed that’s kind of his main sleep objective.  
  
“What the hell are you doing.”   
  
Alright, so maybe the words scare Stiles a little. He sort of maybe forgot that he wasn’t alone in the room for like ten seconds and of course that’s when Derek decided to use the most terrifying tone of voice Stiles has heard from him so far. It’s almost enough to cause Stiles to piss himself, which would then render yet another bed useless for the night.  
  
See what he means about not having any luck?  
  
Derek didn’t really ask the words like a regular person would a question so much as spit them across the room to punch Stiles in the face. Stiles answers anyway.  
  
“Trying to get comfortable?”  
  
“Well stop.”  
  
“Seriously? You’re one of _those_ people? How can you not sleep through a little rustling?”  
  
“It sounds like you’re building a fort. Just lie down and go the fuck to sleep or I’ll kick you out.”  
  
“First of all, even if I were building a fort, it would be awesome. How could you get upset at that? And second of all, you totally wouldn’t do that after I’m already in here, that wouldn’t make any sense.” Derek doesn’t say anything. “Oh shit,” Stiles says, “You definitely  would, wouldn’t you?”  
  
A bitter huff that in another universe might be a laugh comes from the other side of the room, not a lick of humour in it. “Shut up and let me sleep.”  
  
So Stiles, once again, tries to. He lies there, like a corpse in a casket, for five minutes. He doesn’t move a muscle, because he’s a courteous dude. Five minutes. Has anyone ever tried to stay completely still for five minutes in a position so uncomfortable? It’s a circle of hell, no joke.  
  
“Derek?” Stiles finally calls, because there’s no winning. Either he rustles around and he dies, or he stays still and uncomfortable and he dies, or he asks for Derek’s help and he dies. He may as well go out as comfy as possible, right? That’s a reasonable wish for his sorry excuse of a life.  
  
“What.”  
  
Stiles clears his throat. “I, uhhh-- I don’t have a pillow. I thought I could suck it up but--”   
  
He’s cut off by something soft hitting him in the face. He actually kind of eats it, and that’s basically how he finds out it’s a pillow, and the dude who’s lending Stiles a bed is actually being relatively nice in his own weird sort of way.   
  
“Thanks, dude.”  
  
  
Two minutes of snuggling into a pillow that actually smells kind of really good and Stiles is on the brink of sleep. Before a rustling sound wakes him up, that is. It doesn’t stop, either. It pauses for a bit, but then starts up again, then pauses, and so on. It sounds a little bit like -- like Stiles did not five minutes ago.  
  
“Derek?” Stiles calls again.  
  
“ _What_.” Derek calls back, for what must be the third time, each more pissed off than the last.   
  
“Do you want your pillow back?”  
  
“What? No. Just-- I’m fine. Shut up.”  
  
Stiles considers leaving it alone (or pretends to, who knows) for two seconds before he decides he can’t be more comfortable than the dude who’s giving up his room to a half-naked stranger. There’s too much power imbalance, right? He has to give the pillow back. He has to.   
  
He’s a nicer human being than Derek is, though, and he’s significantly less grumpy, so instead of pelting it across the room, he walks over and hands it to the man on the bed.  
  
Who, actually, might not even know Stiles is there until he clears his throat.  
  
“I don’t need it, Stiles.”  
  
“Yeah, and I don’t need the amount of sass you’ve given me tonight, but here we are. Take the pillow, dude, I’ll figure something out.”  
  
Derek does the bitter almost-laugh thing again. “Fine, good luck with that.”  
  
“Shut up, man, I don’t need your sarcasm.”  
  
  
Stiles stumbles his way around Derek’s room, bumping into random shit he can’t see in the dark and trying to be quiet about it (which is an impossible task). He has so far had absolutely no luck in finding something to function as a makeshift pillow, even after he got down on his hands and knees and scaled the ground for discarded sweaters. Derek is too neat for this to work.  
  
And if Stiles wasn’t overtired and absolutely crazy, he wouldn’t even dream Derek was chuckling under his breath every time Stiles let out a yelp of pain. But the thing is, Stiles _is_ overtired and absolutely crazy, so he totally definitely one hundred percent thinks Derek is chuckling under his breath. And that’s a bad thing to think, because it’s kind of endearing? And maybe being attracted to the person who lent you a bed for the night is a bad idea, but who cares at this point? Definitely not Stiles. It’s not his fault this is the perfect hook-up situation.  
  
However, as mentioned multiple times previously, Stiles is constantly battling against his sheer, utter and absolutely undeniable lack of luck, and therefore it is no surprise that Derek is not even a little bit interested in the idea. Not that Stiles would ask, but the dude obviously has to see the potential in this situation, right? So the fact that he hasn’t acted upon it yet is pretty much answer enough.  
  
Maybe Stiles is overthinking this a bit.  
  
Wasn’t he looking for a pillow or something? Stiles starts to scale the walls, brushing a desk and some drawers until he finally finds what seems like a wardrobe. He pulls it open and takes out the fluffiest thing he puts his hands on before waltzing back over to his bed.   
  
“You done?” Derek says into the silence. He still sounds a little bitter, but there’s something amused in his voice too, and that pretty much makes the bitterness completely worth it for Stiles, who is now back to picturing Derek on top of his sheets. Incredibly scantily clad.  
  
Stiles shakes the idea out of his head. “Nah, I’ve given up, it’s time to die. I’ll just lie awake forever.”  
  
The soft chuckling sound comes from Derek again, but it definitely can’t be real. It’s probably him making fun of Stiles, right? Actually, that wouldn’t really be upsetting. Maybe a little embarrassing, but at least he’s still making the grumpy asshole laugh. “As long as you’re finally quiet,” Derek says, and maybe he’s trying to sound angry, but it’s not really working anymore.  
  
“Goodnight, stranger I just met who let me invade their dorm room and put up with my ruckus!”  
  
“ _Goodnight_ , Stiles.” Maybe that one’s actually bitter, Stiles can’t really tell.  
  
  


 

  
  
Stiles doesn’t want to look at the clock. He really, really doesn’t want to look at the alarm clock. He’s been up for half an hour already, unable to get back to sleep, trying to distract himself from the goddamn time. He knows, theoretically, that there are windows in every dorm, but the fact that there is only a soft blue light filtering into this room is not reassuring. He has a class tomorrow at noon and won’t have time to sleep in late if he wants to finish the assigned reading, which basically means coffee in class or die. He risks a glance at the clock anyway.  
  
 _ **4:37 a.m.**_  
  
It’s a very aggressive clock, actually, and the numbers are bold and blinking like the power’s gone out and the time has reset, which is not comforting because it basically means it could be much, _much_ later than that and Stiles would have no idea. What if he’s supposed to be waking up to shower right now? Sure, it’s still mostly dark outside, but it’s fall. It could be like, 7am and still be dark outside, right? His panic is completely valid, goddamn it.  
  
He rolls over, expects to find Derek sleeping with his arms crossed. Instead, the man looks peaceful. The light filtering in from the window is enough to outline Derek’s body, even from across the room, and it beautifully compliments the structure of his face. The early morning light is a blanket on Derek’s skin, a dye that stains the shirt clinging to Derek’s chest. It’s all Stiles can look at.  
  
Is he sure he’s even awake?  
  
Stiles speaks before he even realizes he’s opened his mouth. Usually, at night, when it feels like he’s swimming in the darkness and silence around him, Stiles will say something outloud so he knows he’s real, that he’s awake. Tonight, he just happens to say Derek’s name.  
  
It’s a bit of a surprise that Derek replies immediately. “Yes?” He says, an actual question as opposed to the “what” statements he had been throwing Stiles all night in place of a response. His voice is softer, less grumpy, although it’s not groggy either. Stiles has been awake for a while, but apparently Derek has too. At least they’re going to be tired as hell tomorrow together.  
  
“Why are you awake?”  
  
“I could ask you the same question.”  
  
“I’m not awake. I’m sleep talking. I could start sleep-singing, if you want, or sleep-screaming? I bet I could--”  
  
“Don’t even think about it.”  
  
Stiles smiles, even though Derek probably can’t really see him. “I just can’t sleep. You?”  
  
“I can’t stop thinking.”  
  
It’s such a vague answer, Stiles is obviously intrigued. But he also can’t bring himself to invade Derek’s emotional privacy on top of his physical privacy, so he responds in the most neutral manner he knows how. “You can talk about it, if you want. It’s not like I’ve got anyone to tell.”  
  
Derek is quiet for a few minutes, and Stiles thinks maybe he’s fallen back asleep. He’s almost resigned to roll over and try to do the same when Derek finally speaks. “My sister got in an accident.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Derek just waits again, takes his time answering. Stiles doesn’t push. “I got the call three days ago. She was already in the hospital.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
A scoff. “Drunk driver. She was just -- _fuck_.” He takes a deep breath, and Stiles pretends not to hear the shaking. “She just needed groceries.”   
  
Stiles does his best not to pry, but it’s a little difficult for someone with an intense and frankly quite impressive sense of curiosity. “Is she -- um, how is she? Is she okay?”  
  
There’s another shaky sigh from the other side of the room. Derek sits up, the blue light from the window now highlighting the side of his face. “She’s alive. The doctors say she’ll need a month or two to recover from her rib injuries and broken leg, but I think she’s going to be fine.”  
  
“Fingers crossed.”  
  
“Yeah, fingers crossed.” Derek is silent again, breathing deeply for a while, before speaking again. “I’m sorry I was so rude.” He clears his throat. “You know, earlier.”  
  
“Hey,” Stiles says, and he doesn’t remember making the decision to move, but he’s across the floor before he knows it, hand on the shoulder of a guy he’s never met before today. “It’s not your fault. It must have been scary. I don’t blame you for being tired and grumpy.”  
  
“You were just looking for a place to stay, I had no right to be--”  
  
“Tired and grumpy? It’s cool, Derek, seriously. Being in here is a thousand times better than being in my room when Allison’s there. You should sleep, though, you must be exhausted.”  
  
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, doing his weird almost-laugh again. “Hospital chairs aren’t exactly the most comfortable.”  
  
“Tell me about it,” Stiles replies, chuckling softly like a normal person.   
  
There’s a bit of an awkward pause before Stiles fills the silence again. “Well, uh, I should let you get back to sleep--”  
  
“You can sit down, if you want.” It’s almost as if Derek has chosen to completely ignore what Stiles was just in the middle of saying. Not that he’s complaining.  
  
“Okay.” He sits down gently next to Derek, maybe a little too close. Their arms are brushing and Stiles pretends not to notice.  
  
Derek just sighs, and Stiles can feel the movement though the way Derek’s arm moves against Stiles’ own with the rise and fall of his chest. “I shouldn’t have dumped that on you,” Derek finally says, sounding gruff again, less vulnerable than before.  
  
“Dude, I barely know you.” Maybe that’s the wrong thing to say. Stiles can feel Derek bristle beside him. “You don’t have to hold back, okay? Even if I were to judge you -- which I’m not, at all, by the way -- it wouldn’t matter. You’ve gone this long without me in your life, I’m sure you wouldn’t have any issue dropping my judgemental ass.”  
  
“Still heavy stuff you shouldn’t be carrying though.”  
  
“Maybe not, I guess. But I can still help you carry it or something, right?” It’s kind of difficult keeping up this analogy. “Just keep going if it helps, or I can distract you, or whatever.”  
  
There’s a long silence again. Derek seems to like them, and Stiles has to say he doesn’t mind them as much right now. Maybe it’s the setting, the early morning when everything just feels like it’s supposed to be quiet. Have they been whispering this whole time? Stiles can’t remember.  
  
Derek speaks when Stiles least expects it. “Thank you for listening. I haven’t really been able to-- my family likes to talk things out, but I sort of-- I ran back to school instead of sticking at home. You’re the first person I’ve talked to about it.”  
  
It’s Stiles’ turn to pause before he speaks. “I’m glad I could help.”  
  
Another minute passes, before Derek is sucking in a deep breath. Stiles can feel, partly see Derek’s head turn to look at him. “Can I, uh-- can I take you up on that distraction?”  
  
“Sure.” This is what Stiles is good at. Maybe he has more luck than he thought. Being stuck in a room with this guy he just met isn’t as bad as he thought. “I could talk about the gross nature of dolphins, or the history of the male circumcision, or--”  
  
Stiles is cut off by a surprised noise coming out of his own mouth and a pair of lips meeting his own. By the time he recognizes the soft skin as Derek’s, the only other person in the room, he’s already pulling away from Stiles.   
  
“Shit,” Derek says, already backing away from Stiles, who is still trying to process what just happened. “Holy fuck, sorry.”  
  
Derek is at the other end of his bed, the heat of his body gone with him, when Stiles finally pulls himself together enough to speak. “Wait, wait, no.” He turns to look at Derek, who is pointedly looking away. “Come back here, that’s not fair.”  
  
“What.” That should be Derek’s catchphrase. Stiles is going to put it on a shirt.  
  
“I said come back here. I’m still more than happy to help, you just didn’t give me any time to react, asshole.” Stiles’ heart might be bruising his own ribcage, but he couldn’t give less of a shit. His luck for the night has skyrocketed to a lifetime high. Sure, maybe this isn’t what Stiles meant by distracting Derek. But he’s seriously, seriously, _seriously_ having a much better time anyway. He’s definitely got less practice in this area but he’s damn willing to try.  
  
Derek rolls his eyes. He starts moving closer, though he’s still obviously hesitant. Stiles isn’t having it.  
  
“For real, dude? No. C’mere, I’ll show you distraction,” Stiles says, and before he even knows it, his fist is gripping the neck of Derek’s shirt and pulling him in. Their lips meet, and Stiles’ mouth instinctively opens. Derek’s hands -- which are really big, and strong, oh God -- move immediately to Stiles’ waist, and all Stiles can pay attention to is the burning sensation of Derek’s hands on Stiles’ skin where his shirt has ridden up, and the equally hot feeling of Derek’s mouth on his own.  
  
He’s breathing heavy in record time.   
  
They’re still in a kind of awkward position. Derek seems to read his mind once again, using his strategic hand-placement to maneuver Stiles back onto the bed stomach-up without Stiles saying a word. It’s got to be some sort of miracle that they actually only break away from the kiss for a total of like, two seconds during the move.  
  
Derek positions himself in between Stiles’ legs, hands gliding up slowly to grip Stiles’ neck and jaw. Stiles absolutely burns, all over. Derek’s mouth is hot and wet and inviting, and every so often it’s like he can’t help biting Stiles’ bottom lip. It’s just about the hottest thing Stiles has probably ever experienced. Including sex with his ex-girlfriend.

  
And maybe Derek _can_ read Stiles’ mind because it’s right then that Derek seems to feel the need to remind him it’s a man Stiles is dealing with here, grinding down into Stiles’ hips, half-hard already, and putting a bit of pressure on Stiles’ neck with his thumb.  
  
Stiles, who might be currently in the process of dying right here, right now, can’t help the sound that escapes his mouth. Derek pulls away though, moving his mouth instead down to Stiles’ neck, and just going to _town_ on Stiles’ throat. If Stiles could think of literally anything other than what’s happening right now, he might be concerned about how the hell he’s going to cover it up tomorrow. But he can’t, so it seems like that’s an issue for Future Stiles.   
  
“Oh my God.” It takes a full ten seconds before Stiles realizes the words came out of his own mouth. He’s a little preoccupied with the sensation of Derek’s hands, which have now moved to Stiles’ hips and have resolved to take Stiles’ apart through thumb-pressure in that general area. It’s a bold choice that Stiles is one hundred percent on board with right now.   
  
Stiles breathes heavily, open-mouthed into Derek’s ear while he’s still busy with Stiles’ neck. Derek seems to move with the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest, their hips still grinding together with every breath. Stiles slides his hands from Derek’s hair down to his shoulders, then down his back, dragging his fingertips lightly along the light fabric of Derek’s shirt. They finally land on Derek’s ass, and Stiles just-- squeezes, pushing his hips up at the same time.  
  
Derek breaks away from Stiles’ neck to pant in his ear, their hips never ceasing their rhythm. Finally Derek backs up enough to look Stiles in the eye, but he doesn’t say anything, so Stiles does.  
  
“Am I doing okay at distracting you?” Maybe it kind of loses its effect with the deep breaths Stiles has to take in the middle.  
  
Derek rolls his eyes, squeezing Stiles’ thighs, which are currently around Derek’s own waist. “Shut up, Stiles.” Any annoyance in Derek’s voice is lost by the breathiness of it.  
  
And then they’re rolling over, and it doesn’t really matter who’s decision it was because Stiles is straddling and making out with essentially the hottest guy he’s ever met in his entire life, grinding down on a dick almost as hard as his own through only two pairs of boxers, supporting what is probably already a flowering hickey on his neck.  
  
Stiles would say he’s pretty damn content. And he would exaggerate that statement to the enth degree right as Derek kisses him again, hard, and his hands migrate once more, up from Stiles’ thighs and to his ass, grinding their hips together with enough friction to make Stiles moan.   
  
Derek breaks away, his lips still brushing against Stiles’ as he speaks. “Hush,” Derek says, but it’s not sharp. “We have neighbours.”  
  
“It’s not my fault you decided a hot makeout session was a good course of action,” Stiles whispers back, though he doesn’t stop moving his groin.  
  
Derek stills. “If this isn’t what you want, we’ll stop.” It comes out strained, maybe embarrassed.  
  
“What? No,” Stiles hisses back, already trying to get Derek moving again, to feel the friction back in his boxers. “This is definitely what I want, okay seriously, come on.”

  
Derek smirks from below him right before thrusting up and moving against Stiles, earning him another moan. “Good,” he whispers, even softer than before, and his hands move from Stiles’ ass to grip his hips, and then one migrates to Stiles’ chest while the other migrates to his dick, hard inside the fabric of his boxers. Stiles can’t help but gasp at the touch, electricity shooting down through his legs. He can’t help kissing Derek again and grinding into his hand.  
  
Stiles isn’t sure when this night went from being yet another unfortunate series of events to the luckiest day he’s had in months, but he’s not going to examine it too closely. In fact, he’s sort of incapable of thinking about it at all, instead too focused on the hand (that is not his own, thank you) pulling down the waistband to his boxers and gripping him. Yeah, this night kind of spun a little out of his control, but Stiles doesn’t care. He only barely manages to hold himself together as Derek wraps his hand around both of their cocks together, pulling firm and hard and agonisingly slow. It’s a very gradual taking of Stiles apart, and when Derek brushes a finger by Stiles’ hole for the first time, he sees white.  
  
When the rhythm speeds up, becomes messy and erratic, Derek shaking underneath him and their breath fast and heavy, Stiles comes undone. He spills over Derek’s stomach, weak and panting. After a few moments, Stiles pulls himself together enough to bring his lips to Derek’s ear, playing with his earlobe before whispering a final, “Come on, Derek. Come for me.” And then Stiles kisses him, and Derek does.  
  
  
And then they’re both lying there, Stiles flopped onto his back next to Derek, dick still hanging out of his boxers. He can’t say he has the energy to tuck himself back yet, but he does manage to turn his head to the side to glance at Derek, who is staring at the ceiling.  
  
Derek is beautiful. The light coming from the window is a soft pink now, the room a slightest bit brighter than before. Stiles feels his heart catch in his chest as he watches the rise and fall of Derek’s. He can’t help but let his eyes wander back up to the man’s face, his cheekbones accented perfectly by the early morning light, his eyes beautiful even as they look away. Absently, Stiles thinks that the silk black sheets can’t possibly compare to the man lying on top of them.  
  
Stiles prays. He prays for the bit of luck he had tonight to ride out until tomorrow. Until next week. Until next month, until however long it takes for Derek to stay in Stiles’ life. Maybe it’s just the afterglow, the heat of the moment after unplanned sex, but Stiles doesn’t want to leave the room tomorrow except to grab his own pillow. Slowly, he feels himself drift off to sleep, but not before, half-unconscious, he throws an arm across Derek’s chest.  
  
  
The next morning, Stiles wakes up to an empty bed.

 

 


	2. The Art of Emotional Self-Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to put a warning here just in case someone gets uncomfortable, but i also don't want to give too much way for those who don't want to know, so just scroll right to the bottom. the warning will be in the notes at the end.

Stiles tries not to panic, but it’s hard. He fell asleep on a guy he just met and already has quite an attachment to, praying that they’d stay friends after what theoretically was a one night stand, and woke up alone. He reaches his hand out to grab the sheets beside him and run them through his fingers. It’s true, what Stiles thought earlier last night: he’s never laid a finger on sheets this nice.  
  
Stiles can’t help scoffing to himself. Black silk, seriously? In a college dorm room? What kind of family does this guy have?  
  
He tries not to think about the smell. They didn’t exactly get cleaned up last night, and Stiles has never really thought of sex having a smell, but that’s not the smell he’s trying to forget. The scent he needs to shake (but wants to cling onto) is the one he breathes in when he rolls over and smushes his face into the pillow beside him. The one that fills his nose when he tries to squeeze his eyes shut and go back to sleep so he can have a second shot at waking up. Maybe wake up to a warm body the second time around. He can’t help feeling empty, and he wants to reflect on last night with butterflies in his stomach and hope, but--  
  
It’s no use. Stiles probably did _something_ wrong last night, maybe overstepped, or said something out of line. He fucked it up somehow and he’s kicking himself for it, seriously.  
  
A few minutes pass before Stiles realizes that he has responsibilities that don’t involve wallowing in his sadness in Derek’s bed. Or something. He chances a look at the clock he spent so long last night trying to avoid, and he doesn’t feel any kinder about it now. He’s got a goddamn vendetta against the thing, he’s honestly ready to punch it.   
  
(Though it’ll just have to wait in line to be punched after Stiles’ physical embodiment of his lack of luck. Punching that is first on the list.)  
  
 **9:57a.m.**  
  
At least it isn’t blinking aggressively at him anymore. Does that mean it’s showing the right time? Stiles should check his phone, but -- it’s still in his room.  
  
He doesn’t want to move. Stiles wants to find something, _anything_ to do to kill time, to find a reason to stay in the room. Alas, he has class at noon. He still has to shower, get dressed, get breakfast and get to class. Any reading he was planning on doing in the morning is going to have to be cut short.  
  
Still, he refuses to move.  
  
For at least three minutes, anyway. Sure, maybe it makes Stiles incredibly pathetic, but he buries himself in black silk he wouldn’t even dream of actually owning and sleeping on, trying to memorize the scenes of last night.   
  
Okay, he’s not kidding, these sheets are ridiculous, he would never buy them. They’re going to reside in his nightmares instead of his dreams from this point forward, honestly. Is it rude to leave a note telling Derek to buy less pretentious sheets?  
  
Stiles is forced to accept it. He fucked up somewhere, or it was just a one-time thing for Derek. It’s just -- it’s a fact of the matter, and he’s only going to make it harder in the long run if he comes up with excuses for a guy who couldn’t even meet his eye the morning after. He rolls out of Derek’s bed -- literally -- right onto the ground, and just lays there for a while on the floor before actually getting up. It’s painful, but it’s something everyone goes through, right? He’s not alone in this.  
  
Right?  
  
It may be sad, but Stiles almost wishes he had clothes to search for. He arrived in only his boxers and a tank last night, both of which he still has on. He wants anything to keep him in the room, or keep him occupied so he can focus on something that isn’t the sheets on Derek’s stupid little single dorm room bed. Anything to remind him the night was real. He literally cannot think of anything else.  
  
He really shouldn’t have thought of the sheets again, though, because now he’s standing there like an idiot, staring at them again. The rumples, probably more from him waking up in the morning than the actual night’s events, and the -- is that a stain? That’s totally -- he should change the sheets. He owes Derek that much, especially if he did overstep and oversleep. Not to mention that ripping them off of the bed would be incredibly satisfying.  
  
Stiles gets as far as pulling the sheets off and piling them in the corner before he realizes he doesn’t know if Derek has other sheets, and if he does, where he keeps them. He stares at the now completely stripped bed, knowing that he’s completely foiled this plan of courtesy, but it’s the thought that counts, right?   
  
Who cares. Maybe he won’t ever see Derek again anyway. It’s not like they traded phone numbers along with their secrets. (Not that leaving his phone number isn’t a bad idea, because it totally is an awful idea. But Stiles’ willpower is about as strong as his ring finger, so he does. On a post-it on Derek’s desk, with the words, “If you need to talk again.” He really should have texted Lydia so she’d talk him out of it). It’s not like they have classes together, it’s not like they have mutual friends. They’re strangers, in every sense.   
  
Jesus. Stiles is in the wrong field of study. He should be an Emotional Masochist so he can make a profession of mentally torturing himself. There’s got to be money in that field somewhere.  
  
Stiles bundles up his comforter from the other bed, wraps it around himself to avoid completely filling his embarrassment quota for the day, and drags his feet through the dorm halls back to his room. He mentally pats himself on the back for not taking one last look at the room he’s probably never going to see again.  
  
  
  
As soon as Stiles is back in his own dorm, he shakes himself free of every thought of Derek. He let the one night stand wrap him up and strangle him like those sheets, but now he’s free. Back to his own world, one without pillow disputes and mild stubble burn.  
  
Actually, Stiles is quite proud of himself. He jumps into the shower and scrubs, but he doesn’t poke at the red marks on his hips. He puts in shampoo, and he doesn’t try to see if he can smell Derek on him first. He doesn’t even think of jacking off to memories -- okay, that one might be a bit of a lie. But the point is, he thinks of doing those things and manages not to. He’s proud of himself. Stiles will admit he might have a problem with getting hyper-focused on some things (A man he got very acquainted with briefly last night apparently being one of them), but he can hold himself back. He won’t think about big hands, or Derek’s breath, or his eyes, or the way he looked in soft 4am light, or how he looked in messy hair, boxers and a tank.  
  
Stiles definitely will not think about it. At all.  
  
Anyway, Stiles manages to focus on mentally cataloguing his school work instead, and in the process of completely forgetting the sex, Stiles also manages to forget the mark on his neck. So when he walks out of the shower in nothing but a towel, and Scott’s eyes immediately snap to what must be a dark bruise on his throat, Stiles can only find it in him to smile weakly.  
  
“Its, uuuhhh… Not what you think?” Stiles tries, already trying to move out of Scott’s gaze. Of course, it simply follows him. Stiles resolves to at least get dressed while Scott is trying to get gossip out of him. Is it really gossip if it’s your own life?  
  
Scott nods, smirking a little. Puppies don’t smirk, and yet, the bastard still looks cute. “A friend, huh?” Scott says, dragging his words out and waggling his eyebrows. “Did you sleep well?” He tries to wink and instead looks like he’s been stabbed.  
  
“Don’t even ask, dude, I’m trying to forget about it.”  
  
Scott’s tone immediately shifts. He should give the guy more credit. “Are you okay? Can I help?”  
  
Stiles can only sigh. “I’m fine, don’t worry buddy. I’m just a little -- I’ll be fine. It’s just unreciprocated stuff, the usual.” Stiles turns around and does his best to grin at Scott as he throws on his shirt and tries to change the subject. “Hey, do you have deodorant over there? I can’t find mine.”  
  
“It’s right on your bedside table, dude. And not to pry, but it kind of looks reciprocated.”  
  
It’s not Stiles’ fault if he laughs. He can’t help it. “I don’t know man, honestly, I’m probably just being dumb about it. It’s not like I’m gonna have to deal with it, you know? It’s over.”  
  
“I thought you said you were staying with a friend. Did you guys --”  
  
Stiles grabs his bag, ready to open the door. “It’s fine Scotty, my bro, don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll tell you, years from now, when it’s all funny to me and you can judge me for it then. I’ll see you after class, dude.”  
  
Maybe he should feel bad about closing the door on Scott before he can respond, but right now, Stiles can’t find it in him to care. He doesn’t want to upset his best friend, but he also like, _needs to get out of there_. Out of his room and into class, where he can focus on writing bullshit notes like he’s dying and his stupid boring professor is the only thing that can save him. Or something.  
  


  
  
He manages to get all the way to the overpriced coffee shop on campus before he starts feeling bad. (In reality, a college campus filled with financially-struggling students is essentially the worst place for an overpriced coffee shop, but they seem to have missed the memo). Stiles pulls out his phone and texts Scott a simple, “sorry,” knowing it’ll be enough. Scott’s kind and forgiving reply comes nearly immediately. “It’s all good bro, I get it.” Stiles’ gut rests, and once he’s set with food and coffee, he continues on his merry way to class. He’s all but forgotten last night completely when he sees someone across campus who -- it can’t be, though. His stubble wasn’t that thick, was it? Was he really that tall? That thin?   
  
In the end, it’s not him. Of course it isn’t. Stiles is stupid to think he’d actually see Derek again, and it’s even more stupid for him to get excited about passing the guy on the street. Besides, Derek said he didn’t have class today. Stiles’ wishful thinking isn’t going to suddenly make that untrue.   
  
  
  
His class is boring. There aren’t any notes to take, except for the ones already given to him by the TA on a handout, and he’s already gotten lectures from three of his classmates about not scrolling through the internet during class. Why that’s the business of anyone but Stiles is completely beyond him, but in any case, they’re not going to be happy if he strays from Microsoft Word one more time. It’s hell. He has nothing to distract him and absently Stiles wonders what Derek is doing right now, if he’s not in class.  
  
Stiles manages to spend his useless class time finishing something important for another class, and he makes it back to his dorm without a second (1000th) thought about Derek.  
  
He spends times with Scott, mindlessly shooting video game characters in the head, and eventually asks where Allison is. Scott shrugs. “She has work for the rest of the week,” he says, and he’s very obviously trying not to sound too sad about it. Stiles understands the feeling -- no Allison means no excuse to sleep somewhere else, which means no reason to see Derek again. Not like that’s a surprise to Stiles, but it’s disappointing regardless.  
  
Stiles goes to bed later that night and does not think about how Derek didn’t call. He does not stick out his hand as if Derek were still there, and he does not fall asleep to the thought of a warmer bed.  
  
  
  
Stiles wakes up the next morning expecting to see someone beside him again, but even Scott isn’t in his bed across the room. The entire day isn’t particularly eventful, Stiles just has work at the local pizza place, but he does make friends with a customer named Erica, who is apparently in one of his classes. She smirks at him and pokes fun at him, and winks when she leaves. In another universe, Stiles would be falling all over her. In this one, though, they exchange numbers as friends and plan to hang out.  
  
The entire week goes by slowly. Stiles doesn’t spot Derek on campus, or even in their dorm, Allison doesn’t visit, and Lydia’s on vacation. Every so often Stiles will lose all his better judgement and jump back to thoughts of Derek’s hands, or he’ll fall asleep trying to remember what Derek smelled like. Sometimes he walks by room 304 even when he doesn’t need too, just to see if he can hear anyone inside.  
  
Derek never calls or texts.  
  
It’s when Stiles gets off work Friday that he starts thinking about Derek again. He thinks about how Derek’s sister must be doing, and how Derek’s doing, emotionally, and then -- lightbulb.  
  
Shit.   
  
Shit, shit-shit, shit. Holy _fuck._  
  
Stiles didn’t just oversleep that night, he -- oh God -- he’s going to throw up. Right now. He runs for the nearest building and into the bathroom, splashing water over his face and completely ignoring every single weird stare he gets from customers inside the coffee shop.  
  
He has to come to terms with it, right? He has to say it to himself. At least in his head, and then maybe out loud, in between gags.  
  
Stiles manipulated Derek.  
  
Right? He totally did, didn’t he? Jesus, he’s really going to vomit this time. Stiles scrubs at his face, debating going into a stall and actually throwing up. He took advantage of Derek while he was in a very emotionally weak state. That’s manipulation, right? What if Derek just jacked him off because he needed someone to be there for him and Stiles pressured him into almost-sex?   
  
It’s time to die. Can’t Stiles just pass out on this disgusting bathroom floor and never wake up?  
  
On the only possible plus side there could actually be to this awful revelation, at least Stiles knows why Derek never called or texted. Stiles wants to kick his own teeth in, truthfully, but instead he calls Scott.  
  
“Hey dude, what’s up--”  
  
It’s probably an issue that Stiles can’t even hear what he’s saying into his own phone.  
  
“Hey, hey, hey. Take a deep breath, okay?” Scott says, calm, demonstrating deep breaths. “I want you to know that you’re not saying anything right now buddy. I need you to take some deep breaths. You’re okay. When you’re ready, try again.”   
  
At least Stiles isn’t going deaf? He makes himself stop and breathe, then focuses on Scott’s breathing through the phone. “I think I -- uh, I did something awful, I think? That night when Allison was over?”  
  
“Where are you?” Scott asks, concerned. “I’ll come get you.”  
  
“Coffee shop. Thank you,” is all Stiles can say in return.  
  
“Do you want me to stay on the phone until then?”  
  
“No, I’m okay.”  
  
“Cool.” Stiles can already hear the car starting. “See you soon.”  
  
  
Stiles tells him everything from the week before in the car. Everything. Who can Stiles trust, if not his very best friend, right? Besides, the story doesn’t really work without all the prior knowledge.  
  
“...And when I woke up, he wasn’t there.”  
  
“Hmm,” Scott says, thinking as he drives. Stiles is currently in the passenger seat, hugging his knees to his chest. “I’m not sure how much help I can be on this, dude. Do you want to call Allison and Lydia?”  
  
It doesn’t take long for Stiles to decide he’s better off with company right now, and specifically, Lydia’s particular brand of social knowledge. “Sure, yeah. I think I need more opinions on whether or not I’m a trash human.”  
  
Scott sighs, turning into the parking garage. “You’re not trash, Stiles. It doesn’t sound like you to mistake a situation like that, and I know you wouldn’t do it on purpose.”  
  
Well, they can pray, can’t they?  
  
When the girls arrive, Lydia bursting through the door and strutting in, Allison walking calmly behind her with two coffees, Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. Relief from what, he’s not sure, but it’s definitely good to have people to distract him. Allison hands him a coffee, like the sweetheart she is, and Stiles curls his hands around it to warm them. It’s the small victories.  
  
“Alright Stilinski, what’s the issue? I’m interrupting quantum homework for this, it better be good.” Lydia flips her hair behind her shoulders as if she doesn’t care, but then she walks over to sit beside Stiles on his bed and places a hand on his back, so he knows that’s not true.  
  
Stiles peers into his coffee, willing it to speak for him. It doesn’t. “I, uh-- I think I did something really awful?” He relays the story instead of naming the manipulation he thinks he’s committed, and when he’s done, Lydia blinks at him. What is she saying? Is it morse code? It’s gotta be morse code, she’s never speechless.  
  
Allison, from over on Scott’s bed, just smiles softly. “Stiles, I don’t think any of that is your fault.”  
  
Lydia’s head snaps toward Allison, and then back to the side to peer at Stiles. “Oh, is he-- you’re done? That’s it, that’s the story?”  
  
“I manipulated him -- like, emotionally, right? That’s awful, okay, how could I have done that? He’s like, vulnerable, because he’s been dealing with his sister, and I -- not only did I barge in on his space, but I -- you know, we -- he was distraught!”  
  
“Stiles,” Lydia says softly, bringing him down. Her words are much more sincere now than they were a minute ago. “You didn’t waltz in there, knowing what Derek had been through, with the intention of using him for sex. You didn’t purposely capitalize on his emotional vulnerability, and I don’t know the guy, but I don’t think he’d let you try. You offered him distraction, and he chose what brand he wanted.”  
  
Stiles sighs. He doesn’t feel much better. “But he -- he backed away, he said ‘oh no,’ and ‘holy fuck I’m sorry,’ and stuff, like, no one says that when they’re planning on having a good goddamn time, right? You don’t say that before you make out with someone, do you, Scott?”  
  
“Please don’t pull me into this conversation. I think this is a giant misunderstanding and that’s all I have to say.”  
  
It’s totally reasonable for Stiles to smack himself in the face, dragging his hands down his eyes. Allison speaks softly again. “I really don’t think that’s what he meant, Stiles. I think he was worried you weren’t -- you know.”  
  
There’s a long pause. He gets what Allison’s saying, and when it was happening, that’s what Stiles thought too. But now that he’s looked at it in a new light, it’s a little harder to tell if he pressured Derek, or lured him into anything.  
  
Maybe Stiles is just nervous because he hasn’t seen the guy, hasn’t gotten any communication from him, woke up to a cold bed. He’s overreacting. It’s been an emotionally exhausting month, okay, he’s allowed to hyperfocus on something and stress over it for a while. At least it takes his mind off other stuff, right? Totally reasonable.  
  
Jesus, he’s being totally ridiculous, isn’t he? He is, he definitely is.  
  
“He hasn’t called or anything.”  
  
Lydia moves her hand to Stiles’ knee. “Maybe it really was just a one night stand. It’s not personal, Stiles.” He must not look very satisfied with her answer, because she sighs and makes a face and says, “Or I guess you could knock on his door and talk to him like a real human being.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Stiles says immediately, because he’s totally not considering it, but -- he’s kind of considering it.  
  
Eventually, they all go out for dinner at a local diner, and it’s fun, because Stiles makes the best choice in friends. He’s not so good with romantic interests though, he’ll admit. Scott almost shoots Pepsi out his nose laughing at one of Stiles’ jokes and it almost makes up for a very confusing week Stiles has had.  
  
But in the back of his mind, all he can think of is how Derek is doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Stiles gets very very worried (implied panic attack of some sort i guess) about whether or not he emotionally manipulated Derek. he's being ridiculous though, he's just freaking out. it's no worries.
> 
> as always, comments and criticisms are always welcome!!! i crave validation and praise so if you're feeling generous, go for it!!!
> 
> thanks for reading!!


	3. Dorm Room Doors Like Video Game Easter Eggs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep coming up with dumb names for the chapters i'm so sorry they're so lame i just find them funny okay enjoy ((ill post what will probably be the second last chapter next monday -- hang in there!!))

It’s another week before Stiles even sees Derek again. Stiles pretends he didn’t spend the entire week hating himself and worrying over his intentions. Allison and Lydia didn’t help as much as their words should have, and while he manages not to wallow completely in self-pity and his own stink, Stiles does feel awful. He messed up, big time. He should have said no, maybe made out for a while and then gone to sleep. He should have insisted on being friends with Derek first, he should have-- anything. Anything but this.  
  
He’s on campus, walking to the coffee shop at a time outside of his regular routine. He doesn’t usually have a reason to go after class instead of before, but today he decides to. Stiles has actually managed to avoid thinking about Derek for a day and a half, and he’s quite proud of himself. He deserves an overpriced reward, obviously.  
  
Derek is two people in front of him in line.  
  
Does Stiles say something? Should he ignore the guy, or give him the stinkeye, or apologize? Stiles has never been in a situation even close to this -- he has no idea what the standard protocol is. If he keeps his head down and pretends not to have seen the dude, he’s going to regret it. If he actually says something, he’s probably going to be rejected, and he’ll regret it. It’s a lose-lose. He’s going to punch the person who popularized “treat yo’self.” Fuck that guy. The show’s good, but the writer? He has to pay for this. Treating yourself with overpriced coffee and instead getting a kick to the gut is just unfair.  
  
Stiles swallows. He finally decides he’s not going to say anything, but he’s not going to avoid looking Derek in the eye, either. Who knows, maybe the guy will say something first, right? He can have hope, it’s reasonable.  
  
And maybe tomorrow a pig will be born with wings sprouting from its spine and demons will be chucking snowballs at each other down in hell.  
  
He orders normally, occasionally stealing glances at the dark-haired man who’s now sitting down across the room. Stiles will admit, it’s a little weird to see him in the light finally. A bad kind of weird. The kind of weird that makes Stiles’ brain go haywire and his heart kick off the 1200 metre Olympic race. It’s not that Derek looks _different_ in the light of day, he just looks… more gorgeous. The worst kind of gorgeous. Why is Stiles still digging himself into the grave that is this train of thought?  
  
Stiles’ breath catches in his chest when Derek finally makes eye contact.  
  
This isn’t what he was going for. Does Stiles smile? Does he wave? Does he blink really fast and turn away? Does he melt into the floor, become one with the hardwood and never return to the life of real people who breath and think and do things like meet eyes in overpriced coffee shops?  
  
He’s going to punch himself in the face soon.  
  
It’s even worse when Derek smiles first. It’s tentative, but it’s there, and Stiles can’t help but return it. Maybe the guy’s just being polite, but God _damn_ his polite smile is an art. Stiles can’t hold himself back at this point. He holds up a hand in a half-assed sort of wave.  
  
Derek waves back, but then turns his head back down to focus on the textbook in front of him, and Stiles takes that as a dismissal.  
  
Maybe this is closure. Maybe they can be normal friends now, or nothing at all. Who knows?  
  
  
  
  
Stiles doesn’t think of Derek for weeks, except to justify being bitter. He’s allowed to think the guy’s an asshole, right? Like, connect with a dude on an emotional level, take him apart on your bed, get him off using only your hands, then avoid him for two weeks? Then greet him in a coffee shop and plan never to see him again? What the _hell_ , seriously. Stiles doesn’t want to say he feels like a dog toy that’s been rejected, but that’s just about the only analogy he can make.  
  
For those couple weeks, Stiles manages to focus on school work, and Scott, and calling home, and hanging out with Lydia. By the time Allison sleeps over again, he’s nearly forgotten about the guy. But as it happens, he can’t sleep again. And honestly, what else is he going to do? _Actually_ sleep on the floor of the dorm dining room? Absolutely not.  
  
It takes a bit of talking himself up to once again knock on Derek’s door.   
  


The door opens slowly, and Stiles steels himself. This time, he’s going to sleep, in his own bed, with his own goddamn pillow. Which he forgot. Whatever, he’ll go back and get it if Derek says it’s okay.   
  
“What,” Derek says, as the door opens, but his eyes are closed. When they finally open, he lets out a little, “oh.” He looks Stiles up and down again, and maybe he had a resolve not to do this with Derek again, but he can’t remember. Stiles’ skin already feels hot from just a once-over. Fuck, fuck, no, fuck.  
  
“I, uh -- Allison’s, um -- My room is occupied again.”  
  
Derek says, “You don’t have a shirt on,” instead of replying with something actually worthwhile.   
  
“Uh, yeah, who cares? That’s not really relevant right now, I’m exhausted and I want to sleep in peace.” Something hits him in the face before falling down into his hands. It’s very soft.  
  
“Go get your stuff,” Derek says, before shutting the door. Stiles realizes as he’s walking back to his room that it’s a shirt in his hands, one of Derek’s, and he tells himself that he totally doesn’t smell it before throwing it on.   
  
When Stiles returns, blanket and pillow in hand, the door is open and waiting for him. He walks in, throws his stuff on the empty bed, buries himself in it, and tries to sleep.  
  
It’s too quiet to sleep. There’s no hope for Stiles’ sleep schedule apparently, because he lies awake and all he can think about is the man across the room. They’re probably about eight feet apart, maybe ten at the most, and Stiles can’t fall asleep when he can feel his own pulse in his ears.  
  
That’s when he hears Derek leave.  
  
Which is confusing, of course, because it’s at least one in the morning, which is past curfew. Weird. Sure, the security guards suck at enforcing it and maybe they even leave the stairwell door open for night dwellers, but if someone were to get caught going outside at this time of night -- it probably wouldn’t be good.   
  
So naturally, Stiles follows him. Who needs sleep anyway, right?  
  
He doesn’t catch up right away, instead following fifteen feet behind Derek as quietly as possible. The fact that Derek doesn’t whip around right away is something of an achievement for Stiles, who probably holds the world record for being the loudest human for nineteen years. He follows Derek up a staircase, then two, and is severely confused as he follows Derek up a third, past the last floor of the building.  
  
Does every building ever built have a free and unlocked access point to the roof? Is that just a thing that everybody decides to add into the floor plan like a goddamn video game easter egg? Because now Derek and Stiles are on the roof, like some dumb ass rom-com, and because Derek is apparently incredibly over dramatic, he says, “Why did you follow me?” without turning around.  
  
“Uh, because you left the room past curfew? I was curious.”  
  
Derek just scoffs. “You can go back, I won’t be long.”  
  
“I mean, I guess if you want to be alone then I’ll leave, but I’m kind of super curious about what it is you plan on doing up here. So if you’re giving me the choice, I’m gonna stick around, thanks.” What Stiles doesn’t say is that it’s beautiful up there. The wind is harsh, and maybe a little chilly, but his body is still so warm that it hasn’t registered yet. Not to mention the stars, which normally can’t be seen, are a little more visible because of the high building. Maybe there are plus sides to having a dorm that’s a little out of the city.  
  
Derek shrugs, finally turning back to face Stiles. “It’s your choice,” he says softly, walking at Stiles. Like, directly at Stiles. “I just come up here to think.” Derek’s practically whispering now, closing the two foot distance and walking directly _past_ Stiles. He doesn't know why he expected anything more from the dude, honestly.  
  
Stiles watches the guy walk right to the edge, heart in his throat. “You’re not going to stand on the ledge and quote Poe, are you? Like, you’re not going to talk about the meaning of life as you kick your shoe off and kill someone on the sidewalk, right? Because then we definitely couldn’t be friends.”  
  
“Friends?” Derek says in reply, and there’s a weird tone to it. Right, they’re probably not friends at this point.   
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
Derek doesn’t stand on the ledge, but he does sit on it and dangle his feet over the side. It’s somehow more pretentious and stupid, but Stiles can’t find it in himself to actually care. “C’mere.” Stiles barely hears him, but obeys anyway.  
  
After Stiles sits down beside him, at least three feet away, it’s silent. It’s silent for quite a while, and Stiles can’t help turning his head every so often to peer at the beautiful guy beside him, even more beautiful in the moonlight. It’s so cliché, and it hurts to say it, but who cares as long as it’s true? It looks like someone took a blue highlighter to Derek’s face and decided to make it as gorgeous as possible. Fun thing to do to Stiles, who’s now sitting on the ledge of a tall building with butterflies in his chest. Perfect. Let’s just see how beautiful we can make one man look before Stiles actually throws himself off the top, that sounds like a fun game! Yeah, okay, shut up O Holy One.  
  
Stiles decides it’s time to break the silence. No doubt Derek is already confused as to why Stiles is staring at him like an obsessive creep, and besides, he’d rather get his mind off of the way Derek’s eyes sort of glint in the -- anyway. “What are you thinking about?” Stiles says finally, twisting his body around and throwing one leg back over onto the relative safety of the building to straddle the ledge.  
  
“Shit,” Derek says, still looking out into the city. Eventually he turns to face Stiles, mirroring the straddle. “My sister was in a car crash” -- Stiles nods vigorously; he knows -- “and she’s okay, for the most part, but she’s -- her kidneys were damaged -- it’s just a little… stressful.”  
  
“Jesus,” Stiles says, mostly to himself. “Are you okay?”   
  
“I’ve been focusing on school, I’m distracted. It’s fine.” Stiles doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t interrupt. “I’m sorry, you don’t need this.”  
  


“Hey, hey. It’s okay, dude. It’s better to talk about things, okay? I don’t mind.”  
  
They don’t say anything for a while, until Derek whispers, “Thank you.” He leans forward, and it takes Stiles a moment to realize what’s happening before he’s leaning in and kissing Derek for the second time. Or Derek is kissing him for the second time -- whatever. They’re kissing, and it’s much softer this time around, a slow brush of lips. It’s thought out, it’s careful, it’s closed-mouthed, but it’s wet -- are those tears? Rain? Who knows. Stiles’ eyes are closed and all he wants to focus on is the gentle brush of Derek.  
  
When they pull apart, probably only two seconds instead of the two hours Stiles feels like he just experienced, Derek looks fine. It’s raining just the slightest, but that doesn’t stop Stiles from wondering if maybe the sky is crying either with or for Derek.  
  
Instead of pulling the situation apart completely and analyzing if Derek really was crying, Stiles gets up. He takes Derek’s hand, surprising himself. Maybe the adrenaline has cancelled out his impressive ability to second-guess any and every decision. “Let’s just -- let’s go inside, okay?” He’s gentle with Derek’s fingers, even though they’re sturdy and strong and essentially the opposite of fragile.  
  
Derek looks distant, but nods, and Stiles thinks he feels a raindrop on the top of his head. He’s literally never going to know if Derek was crying or not.  
  
They finally make it back into the room, without seeing any night guards period, and Stiles lets Derek go to his own bed. He’s got to be as tired as Stiles is at this point. It’s probably at least 2 am. Stiles makes his way to his own bed, sitting on the edge, playing with his hands, trying to remember what happened on the ledge. It’s a blur. His lips are tingling, and he tries not to run his fingers by them.  
  
“Derek?” He calls, before he remembers making the decision to.  
  
Derek’s reply is softer than Stiles expects. “Yeah?”  
  
“Can you sleep?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Can I -- do you mind? I can’t sleep either.”  
  
Even in the soft light of the window, which has really become their trademark, Derek makes eye contact. He pulls back a corner of his sheets, never tearing his eyes from Stiles’ except to blink. There’s not a second of hesitation in Stiles’ mind.  
  
He crawls under, careful not to touch Derek. He doesn’t want to be suggestive or intrusive, okay? Stiles has some willpower. A very small amount, but some. Withhold judgement, he’s working on it. He _will_ abstain from gently brushing Derek’s shoulder, no matter how much he wants to feel that warmth through it.  
  
Derek’s arm rises under the covers, and Stiles is about to apologize for the awkward positioning, but instead Derek turns on to his side, mirroring Stiles behind him. Then he drops his arm, very slowly, onto Stiles’ ribs, as if waiting for him to protest. Stiles doesn’t. The hand moves to slide under his shirt -- which Stiles is now remembering is Derek’s -- and presses a warm palm to his skin. It’s comforting, soothing instead of suggestive. Derek’s hand doesn’t move except to pull Stiles back closer into Derek.  
  
So this is spooning, huh.   
  
It’s not so bad.  
  
*  
  
The next morning, Stiles is cold. No one is beside him, although through dreary morning eyes he can make out a figure across the room, searching through a wardrobe. As his eyes adjust, and he slowly recognizes the figure, he realizes the bare-chested Derek is searching for a shirt. Stiles is speaking before he knows it. Apparently that happens to him a lot.  
  
“Derek?” Maybe Stiles’ eyes are actually itchy, or maybe he just wants to complete the stereotype of rubbing at his eyes.   
  
“I have class,” Derek replies, not even glancing back at his bed. “It’s seven a.m., go back to sleep.” And then he’s opening the door, without even a wave back to Stiles, and closing it behind him. The second time in a row, Stiles wakes up in Derek’s room alone.


	4. The Semantics of Being Alone

Eventually, Stiles leaves. He’s got work later that day, and he was planning on actually texting Erica at some point. There’s no point hanging around in Derek’s room endlessly, right? The sheets still piss him off.

For at least a week, Stiles doesn’t see Derek again. They have a very sporadic relationship apparently, and whether Derek is actively avoiding him or just doesn’t pass him on a normal day, Stiles doesn’t know. Maybe he shouldn’t care. Right now they’re just… occasional roommates. Strangers with benefits?

It’s when Stiles is working again that he finally sees Derek. He’s with Erica, of all people, who turns her head at the exact right moment to catch Stiles’ eye. She taps Derek’s arm excitedly, dragging him back into the store. Stiles wants to die. Immediately.

What if they’re dating now? What if Stiles missed his shot to actually get his shit together and ask Derek out, and now it’s not even an option? Stiles tries incredibly hard not to smack himself in the face. Maybe employees face-palming in the middle of work doesn’t create the best image for good business. In any case, they’re coming in now, so maybe Stiles should like, pull himself together, and stuff.

“Hey, Stiles!” Erica calls, dragging Derek into the shop behind her. “What’s up?”

Stiles has literally _no idea_ if Erica knows about him and Derek. If they’ve been friends for a while, she probably does, right? But if they just started hanging out, then maybe not? “You know, the usual. Business has been slow today.”

“Well, you’ve got us here now. This is Derek, by the way. Although he was pretty adamant about not coming in here, so I’m guessing you already knew that, huh?” Stiles can’t figure out what to say in time. Erica plows on. “Anyway, I actually do want pizza, believe it or not. I’m not just here to meddle in your life. Wanna get me a medium meat lovers?”

Derek just stands silently behind her.

Stiles ignores him to the best of his ability, rings Erica up, and puts the order through to the actual pizza makers in the back. The catch is that now she has to wait, and she doesn’t seem like the type to be a quiet and patient waiter. Awesome.

“Soooo, neither of you answered. Do you know each other or not?” She doesn’t look like she’s going to take no for an answer this time.

Of course, because Stiles has absolutely no luck whatsoever, he says yes at the exact same time that Derek says no.

“Well isn’t that just the most interesting answer? Come on, both of you. Spill the details.” Erica crosses her arms, and she may as well be tapping her foot. “Seriously, I’ve got twenty minutes to kill while my pizza is cooked. Give me something here, I’m dying for gossip.”

Because Derek seems intent on not saying anything, Stiles decides he better cover for them. “We have a single class together. I only know him because he’s a go-getter and never stops giving answers or asking questions.”

Derek shoots him a look. He seems pissed off. “I have no idea who this kid is, except he does kind of look like the guy never shuts up.” There’s a smirk on his face now, and they’re both lying, they don’t have a class together, but it’s almost like an inside joke anyway. Maybe Derek’s smirk is unfriendly, but Stiles can only genuinely smile in return.

Stiles remembers they’re not alone only when Erica speaks up again. “Okay, there is definitely something here that I’m missing, but I’m going to leave it for now, because my pizza is here. And that’s all I really care about right now.”

They sit at one of the tables at the front, which is a surprise to Stiles, because he thought they were just going to leave, but he can’t exactly complain.

It’s a weird shift, to say the least.

 

  
Over a short period of time, like two weeks, Stiles starts to see Derek more and more around campus. Maybe something’s changed, or he’s got a job, or his classes are different, or Erica keeps dragging him around. It doesn’t really matter, honestly, because Derek smiles at him and everything else is just semantics.

For a third time, later that week, Stiles knocks on Derek’s dorm room. It’s a lot earlier than the typical routine, but it’s the week before Christmas break, which means it’s some sort of anniversary for Allison and Scott. Which, of course, means Stiles needs noise-cancelling headphones. It’s not even dinner time yet, but Stiles is already racing to escape his room. They need space. Lots of it. Lightyears.

“Uh… hey,” Stiles says, when Derek opens the door. Not for the first time, he and Derek eye each other.

“Hey.”

“Allison --”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and he turns around and goes back into his room. The door is only open an inch or two, so Stiles can’t actually see what Derek’s doing, but not closing the door seems like an invitation. Obviously the only logical course of action is pushing the door open more, if only to peek inside.

Derek shows back up, staring Stiles in the face with his jacket in his hands. “Let’s go,” he says, like Stiles should know what that means, and he closes the door and walks down the hall as if he expects Stiles to follow. Stiles completely ignores his confusion in favour of following Derek, because when comparing the two options, there’s a very obvious choice in mind.

As they’re walking, Stiles starts having doubts. Small ones that he’s probably completely fabricated, but still. What if Derek’s walking him to an empty dorm room, or even to the head office? What if he’s just finding a creative way to kick Stiles out, or end their… friendship, or like, murder him in a back alley?

Needless to say, Stiles is having a great night.

“Uhh,” Stiles says, brilliantly, when they exit the dorm building.

“Sorry,” Derek cuts in, before Stiles can finish. “Do you want to go grab something to eat?”

“I -- what? Like, sure, but what are you sorry about?” Stiles follows Derek out the front door and heads to the nearest plaza.

Derek seems… lighter. Not physically, but his mood. He -- did he just chuckle? “I just don’t want to be stuck in a dorm room right now, that’s all. Over here, we’re taking the car.”

“We’re -- what?”

Of course, Derek has a sleek black car. It’s still light outside, just after sunset, and Stiles hates to think about the way dusk looks against Derek and his goddamn car. It’s like the silk sheets -- Stiles should be obsessed with them, how fancy they are, how far outside his price range -- but instead it’s Derek he can’t take his eyes off of.

Second, since when do Stiles and Derek go places together? Since when do they hang out in the daytime, since when do they eat together, since when does Derek let him ride in his car?

Not that Stiles is complaining.

It feels weird to sit in the front seat of a nice car, but for some reason the fact that he’s with Derek doesn’t feel abnormal. He feels out of place in a leather seat, but not in Derek’s car. Maybe in another life, Derek was his chauffeur. Or something. They argue playfully about where to go, and it just feels -- right. That’s probably really creepy, isn’t it?

They end up going to some dumb burrito place, which really shouldn’t be something you eat in front of someone who makes your heart beat out of your chest. _Hi Derek, please go out with me after I finish drooling rice and pulled pork out of my mouth!_ Nice, Stiles, Really nice. Maybe you should also tell him you haven’t showered in two months and you never wash your hands after you piss. Obviously, Stiles is a pro at this.

Eventually, they go back to the dorm and it’s kind of just universally understood that they’ll hang out in Derek’s room. Derek unlocks the door and walks in, immediately collapsing on his bed and willing Stiles to join him somehow using only his eyebrows. Stiles isn’t one to object, and sits on the bed while Derek pulls up his laptop.

“What do you want to watch?” Derek says, and it’s probably only 9:30, so it’s probably totally reasonable to watch a movie with him.

“Uhh…” Stiles says, because should he suggest something, or say _whatever you want, Derek, my king?_ “We could watch the new Mad Max?”

Derek’s already typing it into the Netflix search bar. “Yeah, I loved that one.”

So there they are, watching a movie, Netflix and _literal_ chill. It is quite cold, actually, is the window open? They’re not even sitting that close. Sure, Stiles is getting warmed literally by proximity to Derek and also maybe the adrenaline pumping through his veins, but they’re like, barely brushing shoulders. Nobody’s hands are down anybody’s pants.

For now.

Not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just -- what does he want over all? He wants to wake up early tomorrow to get breakfast for Derek, he wants to spend the day doing absolutely nothing, he wants to be able to see something and think of Derek and not feel guilty and buy it for him and be happy and fight over board games like a stupid old married couple and --

Stiles might be in a little over his head. Maybe.

The movie ends, and Stiles can’t remember seeing any of it. All he can remember is the feeling of Derek’s hand on his thigh, the moment it inched up a little, the sound of his breath from just beside Stiles’ neck.

Stiles can’t even stand to watch the credits. He turns his head to watch Derek instead, only to find the guy already looking at him.

Stiles doesn’t remember who kissed who. Maybe he just doesn’t care. Maybe all that matters is Derek’s tongue in Stiles’ mouth and hand on Stiles’ back. Maybe the world outside the feeling of Derek’s stubble on his cheek just disappears for a while.

Eventually, Derek breaks away to close his laptop, which might have quietly started playing another movie while they were otherwise occupied. Stiles takes the time to take off his shirt -- because it’s hot, not just because he wants to undress -- but he immediately feels very cold and very naked when Derek does the same. The guy’s made of marble, and Stiles is at best made of like, nice-looking twigs.

It’s not long before Stiles turns his body and flips a leg over Derek’s body to straddle him again. It’s even shorter before Derek seems unimpressed and flips them over instead, settling between Stiles’ legs and kissing him into the bedsheets. Stiles may never see the light of day again. Between too many layers of jeans and cloth, Stiles can feel Derek’s hips grinding up into his ass, which would be infinitely more satisfying if neither of them had pants on.

Someone should fix that. Apparently Derek’s already on it, hands rushing to Stiles’ button and Stiles’ hands flying to help. Eventually they focus on their own respective pairs of jeans, pushing them down and throwing them off like they can’t bear to take their time if it means staying separated. They’re magnets, drunk off the feeling of bashing into each other because they can’t help the force that pulls them together.

Eventually they’re completely naked, and Stiles should feel vulnerable but he doesn’t. He feels like he’s home. Derek’ hovers over him, looking into his eyes with a silent question and Stiles can’t help chuckling when he nods. Derek hands him a condom while he fumbles with container, and Stiles drops the square package twice, laughing at himself. After a beat, Derek joins in, and then they’re giggling and maybe normal people don’t giggle during sex but they _do_ because it’s _them_ and Stiles can’t help thinking that this feels _right_. Stiles can’t even bother to make mental comments about the silk black sheets this time.

Derek is careful, bending down to ease Stiles with his mouth before even trying fingers. It’s not like Stiles has never done this before -- his own fingers have much experience with the tight angles of a shower -- but having Derek do it is different. It’s personal, he’s so close, Stiles can’t breathe properly. He feels electricity shoot down his legs, and his mouth drops open. He feels himself relax, completely trusting of Derek.

They start off slow. Derek makes sure Stiles is comfortable, talks to him, almost can’t help kissing him. After a while they speed up, and they’re moving together, and Stiles rakes his hands down Derek’s back, and Derek plays with Stiles’ ear in a way that should be unholy.

When Stiles comes, he sees white.

  
And for the first time, Stiles wakes up the next morning with company.

Stiles lies there for a while, because there is no better way to wake up than to wake up to a pretty sleeping face next to your own. Eventually, he decides to use the obvious chance gifted to him to grab breakfast for Derek, slipping carefully out of the covers to throw clothes on and exit silently through the dorm room door. He grabs whatever he thinks Derek will like, and his own regular order, and heads back as quickly as possible.

 

  
When he gets there, the bed is empty. Well, technically both are, but the most important one is specifically more bare than Stiles would like.

He swallows, picks up his boxers from the floor (because going commando seemed like a good idea at the time), and walks back to his own dorm in shame. He ends up giving both breakfast orders to Scott, unable to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls pls pls just tell me you're still interested and stuff!!! also criticism is always welcome i always want to learn how to be better. i think i might actually add another chapter, so second last is next monday!!
> 
> as always, thank you for reading!!! and you can always contact me on  
> tumblr: grimegarage


	5. Half Past You're an Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ALTERNATE CHAPTER TITLE: A Chorus Line of Absolutely Not  
> SECOND ALTERNATE CHAPTER TITLE: Stiles Stilinski, The Goddamn Unicorn of Being Fucked Over: an Autobiography

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come on guys my chapter titles are hilarious

So routine continues as normal. That’s how this goes, right? Either they wake up in the morning and pull each other closer and make each other breakfast and start dating (the more preferable option, but for obvious reasons, eliminated) -- or they proceed as usual. And apparently, since Derek has an absolute grudge against what’s under door number one, it seems like item number two is Stiles’ prize.  
  
Not that item number two isn’t worth it. Stiles is absolutely fine with option number two, so the next time Allison comes over, he doesn’t hesitate to walk down to Derek’s dorm room. Except, when he knocks on the door, the Derek who opens up is not the Derek who fell asleep with his nose in the crook of Stiles’ neck.  
  
“What do you want?” It’s so aggressive and rude that Stiles is taken aback, can’t speak for a second.   
  
He gathers himself as much as possible. “Uhh… Allison--”  
  
“I don’t care. We can’t keep doing this. Find somewhere else to go.”  
  
“What? What happened? I thought--”  
  
“You thought wrong, Stiles. Get out of my door.” He almost shuts it, before Stiles makes one last attempt.  
  
“We can just sleep--” The door slams in Stiles’ face.  
  
That’s it, that’s the end. A tar pit forms at the bottom of Stiles’ stomach, and he can feel bile rising to his throat.  
  
It takes all the effort Stiles has not to throw up on his own shoes, or punch himself in the face, or maybe burst into tears. He stands there for what must be at least five minutes before he can drag his sorry ass back to his own room, but it takes days before class seems achievable.   
  
It’s stupid to be so worked up, though, right? It’s not like he and Derek were even friends, let alone _dating_. It’s ridiculous that Stiles should expect any sort of treatment from him. Derek is a book of question marks, and even if he did take Stiles’ ass-virginity, he sure doesn’t owe Stiles anything for it.  
  
After a week of moping around his dorm and listening to Allison and Lydia literally begging him to go to class, he finally obeys. He doodles a sleek black Camaro in English Lit, and suspiciously familiar silk black sheets later that week in Latin. Stiles can’t help thinking about the way Derek’s hair smelled, or the way his shoulder muscles move under his shirt when he’s doing literally anything.  
  
It’s painful.  
  
“You can’t keep doing this, Stilinski.”  
  
Distantly, Stiles can hear Lydia’s voice, and there’s a hand pushing at his leg from on top of the covers. He can’t tell who it is though, because his head is buried underneath his comforter and he doesn’t plan on coming out for anything other than a tub of ice cream and a mug of hot chocolate or maybe a good action movie. No Mad Max forever.   
  
“I’m serious. We care about you. There’s more to life than sulking in your bed, okay, he’s not worth it.”  
  
Stiles makes an absent growling sound. “I started going to work -- and class.”  
  
“I know,” Allison chimes in. “And that was great and we’re proud of you. But we want to go have dinner with you, Stiles. We miss you.”  
  
“You know what, I miss--” A chorus of _no_ cuts him off. “I was going to say ‘you guys too,’ but whatever. Fuck you guys.” There’s hesitant laughter from around the room until eventually they’re all actually laughing and Stiles manages to peek his head out from the covers. “I just don’t know what I did wrong, you know? It was going great!”  
  
“I think it’s time to worry about other things for a while,” Allison says, and they all manage to drag Stiles (literally) out of bed.   
  
The week following is better. Stiles is able to pull himself together a little more, and maybe it kind of reminds him of the No-Derek section of his routine. His old routine. The precious -- albeit boring -- part of his life wherein the most socially exciting thing that ever happened was his professors sending the wrong emails and people from his classes gossiping too loudly at work. The good ol’ days.  
  
  
  
It’s all on a slow incline until the inevitable happens: Stiles runs into Derek on campus, literally. Their shoulders brush as they walk by each other, and it’s aggressive and unfamiliar. If Derek didn’t know it was Stiles he was bumping, he sure wasn’t sorry about it anyway. It’s like a slap to the face. _I’m done using you for sex_ , it says, _don’t talk to me again_.  
  
Stiles can’t take it. He’s probably seen Derek three times since the last dorm room incident, and every time it’s felt like a punch to the gut. Even from across the street, or a hundred feet away, Stiles’ heart starts beating a mile a minute and he feels ready to throw up. But this time, he’s not having it. This time, he’s done. This time, he says something.   
  
“Okay, dude, what the hell?” Stiles spins around, calling after Derek’s back.  
  
Derek’s neck whips back, and Stiles is momentarily worried he’s going to get whiplash then and there. “What?”  
  
“What’s your problem, man, seriously?”  
  
Derek huffs and turns back around. “Forget it, Stiles.”   
  
But because it’s Stiles, just about the last thing he’s going to do is ‘forget it.’ “You know what? No. I left you alone. I held my wrist from knocking on your door at least four times in the past week and I never once called your name. I left you alone. You don’t get to bump into me in the street like you can’t bear to walk by me without shoulder-punching me, okay, that’s not cool. I tried not to be clingy, I never asked for your phone number like I thought about doing a thousand times, I don’t know what you want from me--”  
  
“What?” Derek is staring at him. Maybe Stiles hadn’t meant to go on for so long, and maybe he hadn’t meant to say some of what ended up falling out of his mouth. But it happened, and now he’s got to commit and live with it and pretend his luck and life aren’t currently in the proverbial dumpster.  
  
“Look, I don’t get why you’re so pissed off at me. I don’t know why you yelled at me, and I don’t know why you keep looking at me like I killed someone. Don’t bump me on the street and then pretend I should understand why, like it’s a reasonable thing for you to do.” Stiles is, at this point, out of breath. There are people staring at them, understandably, because they’re quite loud and the campus is anything but empty.   
  
Derek falters, visibly. It’s something that Stiles has never seen happen before. Derek’s always been in control of himself, for the most part, when Stiles has seen him -- it’s only now that Derek isn’t that Stiles has noticed. It’s almost refreshing. “I --”   
  
For an idiotic moment Stiles will beat himself up for later, he thinks Derek might actually apologize.  
  
“I have class.” And then Stiles is staring at the back of Derek’s head as he walks away.  
  
“Fuck you. You hear me, Derek? Fuck you!”  
  
This time, Stiles does not mope. He breaks three mugs and pretends for a week and a half that his middle finger is _not_ broken from punching a brick wall.   
  
To be fair, he cries when he has to clean the glass up off the floor, and again when he tries to knock out brick, but he’s not actually that upset. Honestly, Stiles almost saw it coming. It’s only when the first mug drops that he scrambles and knocks off the other, which adds onto everything else, and his frustration gets to be too much when he throws the third. The wall-punching isn’t so much pure rage as it is trying to change something, anything, to have any effect whatsoever.  
  
Eventually his middle finger gets taped up at the hospital to his pointer finger, and he is instructed to baby his right hand for at least two weeks, which makes giving people the middle finger quite difficult. Minor fractures apparently only need a month or two of casting. He has to type up notes in his classes using his only good hand, which is enough to make him want to punch another wall with it.  
  
  
  
After another three weeks, Scott attends a late night class, and Stiles orders himself a pizza. He’s refused to let Derek cross his mind for two weeks, even in the shower. The most surprising part of that is that Stiles has actually done a good job. With the exception of seeing the most awful set of silk sheets while he was out curtain shopping and trying not to cry, he’s managed to banish the asshole from his head for an entire two weeks.   
  
Eventually, Stiles’ gaming is interrupted by a knock at his door. He grabs his wallet when he gets up to answer, pawing through to find the change for a tip for the poor campus pizza guy. Except when Stiles opens the door, he comes face to face with a significantly red-eared Derek.  
  
It takes a moment to register. “What,” Stiles says slowly, “the hell,” he continues, “are you doing here?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Derek says quickly, when he’s sure Stiles is done. “I’m really sorry, and I know you probably don’t want to see me, but --”  
  
“Yeah, you’re right, I don’t want to see you.” Stiles understands he’s being rude when he closes the door, but he can’t force himself to stop. He finally got rid of all the rib-breaking feelings that come with thinking about Derek, and he’s not about to willingly invite them back into his apartment without good reason.  
  
“Wait, Stiles, Jesus,” Derek says, shoving his literal foot in the door. “Just wait, please? You don’t have to forgive me, but just listen?”  
  
Derek is unsure of himself again, and it’s a weird sight. Unfamiliar, yet oddly endearing. Stiles finds himself taking a deep breath, pretending to have a mental debate -- pretending, because his mind is already made up.  
  
“Fine. I’ve got pizza coming, you have to help me pay and by then you better be gone.”   
  
“Time is all I wanted,” Derek replies as he walks in.  
  
“Well I’m giving it to you,” Stiles says stiffly, and he goes to sit on his own bed. Derek must sit in either Stiles’ desk chair or on Scott’s bed. He chooses the chair. “You better get started.”  
  
Derek sighs, and the chair creaks with him. It makes sense -- it’s not exactly new, Stiles picked it up at a garage sale. “I made a mistake. The night we went out for dinner, I... I didn’t want anything to happen--” Stiles can’t help what happens to his face, “--not like that. I wanted it to be a normal night, I wanted to have dinner with you, I wanted to sit and watch a movie and fall asleep.  
  
“The thing is, you’re -- fuck, Stiles, you’re irresistible. I wanted it too, don’t get me wrong there. I want it all. When we--” Derek looks pained. He’s stumbled his way through every sentence so far, and it’s like watching a train wreck. Stiles can’t look away. “I wanted it to mean something. I wanted to skip class the next day if it meant I could just lie in bed with you. But then I woke up, and you were gone.  
  


“I’m not saying this is all your fault, I’m saying it felt to me like you were making a statement. Maybe I misunderstood, or maybe I was more dramatic about it than I should have been, and then I got some unclear advice that maybe wasn’t the best, and I didn’t know what to do. I haven’t spoken this much or this honestly in a long time and it’s scary but it’s less scary when it’s you.  
  
“I’m sorry, Stiles. I want to try again, with you -- please, just --” He’s finally interrupted by another knock on Stiles’ door. This one is actually the pizza guy, who looks a little traumatized and maybe this isn’t the first time he knocked. Oops.   
  
Stiles pays him, takes the pizza, and bids the delivery man good night. Derek hands over money to Stiles, and they sit down on the floor. Dorm rooms have nothing in common with chair stores and tables are expensive. Life is life, they eat pizza on the floor. Though Stiles will admit he doesn’t remember when something switched in him tonight and he became cool as a cucumber with Derek eating pizza on his floor. He should still hate the guy. He should be making Derek eat pizza _off_ the floor.   
  
“I hate to say it,” Stiles says anyway, through a mouthful of pizza crust, “but I’m glad you came tonight. It’s boring without Scott.”  
  
Derek doesn’t reply right away. “What do you want to do?”  
  
“Um, eat my pizza? I’m not about to go conduct a goddamn symphony orchestra, it’s 9pm on a Wednesday.”  
  
It seems like Derek can’t help his easy chuckle. “I meant about us.”  
  
“Oh." He takes a moment. "For the record, I was gone because I was buying you a fucking breakfast burrito, but we’re going to ignore that for now.” Stiles has to think about it. Sure, it can’t all be a lie. There’s no reason for Derek to make all this up if he really didn’t want to, but it’s also a pretty unbelievable excuse. It’s all about what risks Stiles is willing to take and what (little) mental progress he’s made in learning how to get over Derek, to an extent. “Can I think about it?” He asks, even though he has a pretty damn good idea what his answer is going to be.  
  
Derek looks pained when he nods. “Of course. I’m going to head back to my room. Promise you’ll come talk to me when you’re ready? Even if it’s a no, I want to hear it from you.”  
  
Stiles nods in return. “Goodnight.”  
  
“Goodnight, Stiles.”  
  
  
  
When Stiles finally pulls his shit together three days later, it’s because Scott is out again, and Lydia isn’t there to judge him. He walks confidently down the hall, mentally and physically and emotionally prepared to knock on Derek’s door like old times. It seems much more real when his knuckles finally connect with the door.  
  
No one answers. He knocks again, and still there’s no noise. He resolves to come again another time, disappointed that Derek must be out at class, or getting food, or whatever it is that Derek does when he’s not busy driving Stiles absolutely up the wall. But Derek’s name isn’t on the whiteboard outside the room anymore, so on a whim, Stiles checks the handle of the door.  
  
It opens easily, and inside is a group of people putting together a room empty of personality. Derek’s dresser is gone, and so is his desk, and so are his stupid fucking silk sheets. Both beds are ass-naked, and Stiles feels like there’s a weight in his stomach.  
  
“What are you doing here?” University sigils are plain on the left shoulder of their shirts.   
  
Stiles holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry, I -- who lives here?”  
  
“No one, now. We’re setting the room up for new students.”  
  
“Where’s the guy who used to live here?”  
  
The guys putting together a bedside table shrug. “You can ask the main office, if you really want.”  
  
Stiles just sighs. “Thanks anyway.” That’s decided then. By word of God, Stiles is never to have anything good in his life, ever. It has to be fate, though, right? Things like this don’t just happen to people. Things like this happen to Stiles specifically, because the universe hates him, and because his internal clock is literally always set to Half Past You’re an Idiot. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be; there’s no point in trying to stretch and pull at the string of destiny like a nasty game of tug o’ war with the Fates. Or whatever.   
  
Just for good measure, Stiles checks the rooming plan around the corner. Sure enough, Derek’s name is no longer where his room should be -- instead, it’s two rooms away, just under “Isaac,” whoever that is. Should he knock, or leave it? What if Derek changed his mind with such high levels of regret and disgust that he literally had to ask to be switched into another room?  
  
But Stiles will literally never forgive himself if he doesn’t knock. It’s not even an option. He’d walk by the door and his spiking levels of curiosity would probably give him a goddamn heart attack. That’s no way to die. He may as well perish via rejection if it’s already going to be an awful death, right?  
  
But the person who answers is not Derek. At this point, Stiles shouldn’t be surprised at his negative levels of luck.  
  
Instead, the person who opens the door is an obviously self-conscious boy in a beige towel wrapped gingerly around his waist. Stiles starts laughing, right in the poor guy’s face. He can’t find it in himself to be really upset, he can’t -- it’s just so funny, so ironic.   
  
“Sorry, sorry. Who are you?”  
  
“Um, Isaac? This is my room.”  
  
“What?” Stiles hears himself say, and he’s laughing again. “You’ve got to be shitting me. Have you got a roommate?”  
  
“Yeah... who are you? What do you want?”  
  
It suddenly becomes apparent to Stiles that Derek moved rooms because somehow, in three days, he picked up a new guy. His hair isn’t even wet, Derek really thinks that would fool Stiles? Jesus. He never should have gotten his hopes up, he should have known Derek was playing a joke on him. How could someone with a jaw like Derek’s ever be serious about being with a guy like Stiles?   
  
“I was looking for someone. Sorry to bother you, Isaac. I’ll see you around.” Stiles chuckles as he leaves. It’s impossible for the author of Stiles’ life to hate him this much, yet here he is. A statistical miracle in the field of fucking people over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had at least one request for a chapter from derek's point of view so far, and i'm kind of considering it??? let me know. last chapter will be posted a week from now. thank you so much for all the kind words, reading and being patient with me!! i love you guys
> 
> as always, thank you for reading!!! and you can always contact me on  
> tumblr: grimegarage


	6. Fate Had Nothing To Do With It

He gets halfway back to his room before Derek’s voice calls after him. “Stiles, wait.”  
  


“Do I have to? I'm kind of awful at waiting. I have this habit of overthinking things until I can’t breathe and nothing makes sense.”  
  


Derek tries to hold back a chuckle, but plows on nonetheless. “My room literally just got switched, okay? Please don’t go, I still want to talk things out. You’re --”  
  
“What are you doing right now?” Stiles breaks in, because there’s no sense in dawdling, and maybe he’s angry but he’s probably jumping to conclusions again. He really wants to figure things out with Derek and doesn’t really have the patience to stand in a dorm hallway and hash things out there. Besides, if Derek really has got a new booty call, at least he’d have to admit it in front of a crowd. Of course, the sudden boy-toy theory now seems completely ridiculous. Funny how Stiles’ brain works when he’s hopped up on caffeine, lack of sleep, and a truly awe-inspiring amount of self-pity.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Cool,” Stiles says, already walking, “Let’s go to the overpriced pretentious hipster caffeine dispensary.”  
  
“You mean the coffee shop?”  
  
“Whatever.” Without thinking, Stiles grabs Derek’s hand to pull him into a walk. “Come on,” he says, and once they’re in stride, Stiles drops it. It’s better not to get ahead of himself. They finally arrive at the coffee shop, claiming a seat at the back before going up one at a time to order. It’s ten minutes after that when they finally get down to business (to defeat the huns).  
  
Derek looks nervous -- or at least as nervous as Derek possibly can. He wraps his hands self-consciously around his cup of coffee before finally speaking. “So…” Derek drags, and Stiles is momentarily afraid that’s all he’s capable of saying. “Sorry about my room.”  
  
“Hey, it’s fine. I found you, didn’t I?” They laugh awkwardly. Man, they’re pros. “Okay, let’s just -- dive right in, if that’s okay, because I’m not sure I can actually sit here and make small talk much longer without actually talking about us.” Derek only nods, so Stiles plows on. “I want to do this again with you. That’s the easy part.” Derek nods again, serious, solemn. Someone has to tell this guy who he’s dealing with. No conversation is serious and solemn when it’s Stiles you’re talking to. “The thing is, I want to like, properly date you. Can you do that?” Stiles feels like he’s swallowed liquid nitrogen. He might throw up.  
  
“Yeah, yeah. That’s exactly what I want.”   
  
And Stiles’ stomach eases a little. Most of the anxiety dissipates, but the excitement nerves make themselves even more present. “Good! Cool, yeah, awesome. Sweet! Okay, so then let’s figure out how this romance train went so off-track it became a fucking submarine. Start with the very very first night: Handy Dandy Opening. Or just Handy Dandy, I haven’t decided yet.”  
  
Derek can’t seem to hold in his laughter, chuckles erupting out of him. Apparently that happens a lot with them. “You titled it?”   
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Jesus, why am I into you?”  
  
“You’re not helping your own case here, dude.”  
  
“Sorry. Anyway, that first morning I left to get you breakfast, and when I came back, you were gone. I left a note on my own desk saying where I’d gone and also leaving you my number, just in case you woke up while I was out.”  
  
Note.  
  
His number.  
  
Derek left a  _note with his number on it._  
  
Stiles might start catching flies if he can’t pull himself together to shut his mouth soon. His horrified shock face probably makes a good “Scream” impression at this point. “ _What_?” Stiles refuses to believe he screwed himself over that bad. He was so upset, so convinced Derek didn’t like him, but if he had just _checked for a damn sticky-note on the desk_ \-- Jesus. Apparently Higher Beings have nothing to do with Stiles lack of luck; it’s all due to his own damn stupidity. Lovely. “I honestly don’t believe you.”  
  
“I’ll show you, if you want. It should still be stuck to my desk if it didn’t fall when my shit got moved.” Derek looks unphased. He knows he left that note, goddamn it.  
  
Fuck. “Well, I hope you know I hate myself.”  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
“I _hate_  myself, Derek.” Stiles can’t force himself to be mad that Derek’s chuckling, because he’s joking anyway. “Also, I left you my number too! I wrote a note on your bedside table and everything. Why didn’t you call?”  
  
Derek’s eyebrows knit together with genuine confusion. “I did, once I got home, even though the note did feel a little bit sarcastic. I kept getting a middle-aged woman named Cathy. Is that your mom?”  
  
“If I wrote down the wrong number, Derek, I swear to God. I’m going to punch myself in the face.”  
  
Stiles tries not to chuckle when Derek’s face flushes red. Derek reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and pawing through it. “Here,” he says, handing Stiles a familiar piece of paper. His ears are tomato red.   
  
Stiles can’t help staring at the piece of paper in his hands. It’s the note he wrote for Derek that morning, the exact same one. Derek kept it. Derek fucking _keeps it in his wallet_ , Jesus. Before Stiles knows it, he’s grinning like an idiot down at the page.  
  
“I called that number. At least four times, Cathy was quite upset -- but she did ask for an update when I finally got a hold of you.”  
  
Stiles laughs. “Did you update her? Also dude, tell me you called this number with a three, not an eight.”  
  
“Of course I updated her, she needed to know. Her book club only meets once a week, she needs some excitement in her life.” Who knows if he’s joking? Definitely not Stiles. Literally not even an inkling; Derek’s face betrays no emotion. Maybe that makes it all the more endearing -- Derek's totally being honest, he's invested in a random woman's life. “There were definitely no threes in the number I called.”  
  
“Oh my God, you have to be shitting me. Why didn’t you ask me about it any of the other times we were together?” There’s no way life could have fucked them over this bad.   
  
Derek shrugs. “What did you want me to do? Ask mid-orgasm what your real number is? Honestly I thought you left the wrong number on purpose.”  
  
God really does hate men who date men. Sleeping with them is fine, but Stiles dating Derek? Nuh uh, can’t happen. No way.  
  
Stiles doesn’t actually blame God. If there is a Holy Santa Clause, he was probably trying to _help_ Stiles’ situation while he was too busy being stupid. “What about when we were having dinner?”  
  
“By then I thought you didn’t want me to call. I thought casual was our routine.”  
  
“You said you wanted that night to be a date.”  
  
“I did. But the night was going so well, I didn’t want to ruin it by asking for your number and having you freak out. I planned to do it after the movie or in the morning, but we were a little preoccupied that night and the next morning you were gone.”  
  
“Yeah, to get us breakfast. I came back and _you_ were gone.”  
  
Derek scrubs his hands down his face. “This is ridiculous. I thought you left, and I had class. Fuck. How did this happen?”  
  
“What can I say, man? We’re really good with timing.”  
  
“Shut up,” Derek says, but he’s laughing.   
  
“Alright, what about your freak out the last time I knocked on your door?” Stiles crosses his arms, remembering why exactly he had gotten mad at Derek.  
  
Derek rubs at his eyes again. “I decided to ask Erica for help, which was probably not the best idea. She’s great, but I think she thought you had totally wronged me.”  
  
Stiles then sits patiently while Derek explains, in clipped sentences, what could probably be summed up as “colossal miscommunication.” Then again, that’s a good summary of Stiles and Derek’s entire relationship up to this point, right? As Derek tells the story, Stiles sips at his coffee, listening and (to his own surprise) believing wholeheartedly what he hears. Derek explained the situation to Erica, probably awfully, and she went off about how it was wrong to use someone for sex. She spent weeks telling Derek not to pine for Stiles, to push him out of his mind -- of course, she meant _after_ having a talk about the whole situation. Poor Erica was under the impression that Poor Derek had already talked to Evil Stiles, who had shut him down with an “I don’t care about you,” and a grab for his trousers.   
  
Pleasant. Good to know Erica’s loyal, even if it’s loyal against Stiles.  
  


Stiles uncrosses his arms, reaching for his coffee. “Next: what just happened with your room?”  
  
“Isaac’s roommate just got kicked out of school and new batch of kids just transferred in. They needed the empty spot in my room.”  
  
“The new transfers are going to live on residence?”  
  
“I guess they don’t know yet. Apparently the kids paid for rooming but already have their own townhouse together. I won’t know if I can get my room back for a week or two.”  
  
“They’re gonna let you have your room back? That seems like a stupid decision, but okay.”  
  
Derek only shrugs again. “I originally selected a single room. I’m pretty sure I can lobby to get my room back. I like Isaac though.”  
  
Stiles laughs in return. “You’ll still live right beside him, dude. You literally moved across the hall and two doors down. I’m not sure you’ll have a problem trying to keep in touch.”  
  
“You’d be surprised,” Derek says, and they both burst into chuckles.  
  
If only to satisfy Stiles’ curiosity, he asks the question he’s been thinking about for a while. “Last question on the exam: how’s your sister, dude? I’m kind of worried.”  
  
Derek chuckles softly, but his smile is more honest. “Yeah, she’s fine. There was a while where they thought she was going to need a kidney transplant -- I fell off the grid for a while because the hospital had me in and out for blood compatibility testing -- but even her organs are stubborn. Her leg’s still in a cast, but she’s already trying to pick fights with me again.”

 **  
**They laugh some more, and then Stiles and Derek are silent for a while at the table. What else is there to say? “We sure got fucked over by life, didn’t we?”  
  
“Yeah,” Derek replies, leaning back in his chair. He looks different from when Stiles saw him the second time ever, in the exact same coffee shop. They only exchanged quick glances, a small wave, but it seems burned into Stiles’ memory. Somehow, Derek looks happier now. His features are brighter, and his stance is strong. There’s another quiet moment before Derek says, “Hey, do you want to get out of here?”  
  
In his head, Stiles is confused. Where are they going to go? Grocery shopping, a movie, glow-in-the-dark mini-putt, the park, the library, a funeral? Before Stiles can answer his own riddle, he realizes he’s already nodded. And then he realizes that they’re already walking out the door. And then he realizes he doesn’t really care where they go.  
  
  
  
  
(For the record, they go back to Stiles’ room. They are innocent and casual, studying and watching the new Mission Impossible movie together. They make plans to take things slow, start out dating properly. Every so often, they have to throw things at each other in a silent agreement: _that thing you’re doing with your mouth is unholy, please stop_. Or _for the love of God, put some clothes on, you’re killing me_. Or _if we’re going to wait, you better keep your dirty whore mouth shut, you fiend_. It’s an interesting dynamic, but it works.  
  
And eventually, Stiles does show Derek just how unholy his mouth can be -- but not until they’ve dated properly for a month and a half.)  
  
Erica eventually forgives Stiles for hurting Derek, though she continues to beat both of them up for being so stupid -- and Lydia, Scott, Allison, and eventually Isaac willingly back her up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so as I was finishing the last couple chapters of this story, I kind of became unhappy with my writing quality so more than ever I'd love to get tips and comments and criticisms!!!!! (literally anything you have to say is worth it to me) I do have three more fics im writing right now but theyve taken months already so idk when I'll be done. thank you!!!
> 
> anyway as always, thank you so much for reading i love you guys so much!!! you can always contact me on  
> tumblr: grimegarage


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